The Bloodied Dagger
by Exterminatedaffodils123
Summary: When the assistant in one of Adam's shows goes missing after being stabbed in a locked room, Jonathan Creek must team up with DI Olivia Jones to catch the killer and solve the mystery. 1/6 of the Jonathan Creek series
1. Chapter 1 - Introduction

(A/N) Okay, so this is set after Gorgon's Wood and before Grinning Man – i.e. after Carla but before Joey. I've introduced a new sidekick, just for fun ;) Please review the story, I need all the help I can get :) (A/N)

The lock clicked shut with a sudden sharpness and ferocity, as Paula was plunged into darkness.

"Okay, Adam, you got the knives?" rang the voice from outside. "Right, we need them in there in five…four…three…two…now!"

All 5 polished metal blades each plunged through the wooden slots in the box, each passing through the space and emerging on the other side, one at a time – one, two, three, four, with each blade emerging pristine and perfect. However, the fifth blade past through, only this time, it caused a quick squelching sound, and a thin, red trail followed it out of the box, oozing down the side of the box.

"Paula? You clear?" came the voice again, shouting at the box. A deadly silence followed for a few seconds, before a knocking came from the box. "Okay, Adam, open it up,"

The box was swung open, to reveal its contents…or rather, lack of them. The blades were suspended in the air, with the fifth blade crimson and glistening. However, Paula was nowhere to be seen.

Sat in a tattered seat, around fifty metres from the stage, Jonathan Creek leaned back, tossing his notebook onto the chair next to him.

"Okay, reset the stage, we'll go over it again," he called, resting his head in his temples. "Bring Paula back up again,"

Two stagehands picked up the box, and carried it over the stage, revealing the false bottom attached underneath, and Paula rose up in its place, crouching on the trapdoor. Adam Klaus extended his hand to her, and pulled her up as she grabbed it.

"That was even better!" he said, smiling a thousand smiles to accompany the praise. "Not too cramped in the space, I hope?"

"Mr Klaus, I was conjuring elephants back when you were pulling coins from behind your mother's ear," she shot back, flexing her muscles "I think I can manage one hiding spot,"

"Yes, well…" Adam started, before turning around and walking towards a stagehand, who suddenly had very interesting news. Paula looked over at Jonathan, who was now examining the box for breaks or flaws, before strolling confidently over towards him.

"Mr Creek, I'll be leaving now," Jonathan heard, as he replaced the cartridge of fake blood in the box. Quickly, he sneaked a peek at his watch – it was only five past six. Most people, especially the main cast, stayed until at least half seven when it was two days until the big premiere of the new show – Adam Klaus, live in _The Silver Carbuncle_. After the previous assistant, Astra Connors, broke her foot walking home one night, Adam had no choice but to pull a favour from Paula, an old friend from a Magic Circle meeting five years ago, to fill the void. Needless to say, things had been running less than smoothly.

"Yes, okay, Paula, but just remember, try to make the swap in _Lonely Hearts _as smoothly as possible, alright? Last thing we need is the whole set coming down if one of the girls get caught on the hook," he said, avoiding eye contact. His comment was met with a mighty harrumph, before she turned around, heading for the exit.

When Paula was a safe distance out of earshot, Adam vaulted over to Jonathan.

"You know, Jonathan, I think the space beneath the stage is too small for Paula. I could see it in her…muscles, when she came out of the whole. I tried to help, but she just shoots me down!"

"Maybe she suffers from Klaus-trophobia," Jonathan muttered in reply.


	2. Chapter 2 - DI Olivia Jones

The dance hall was brightly lit, every single one of the light bulbs shining on full, showing the stark red paint and auric trimmings decorating the room. In the centre of the laminated floor, surrounded by a small pool of blood, lay Florence Winters, her body mangled, gnarled and bloody, as still was a grave.

"This is where we found her," said DI Collins, bursting open the doors as he entered. DI Olivia Jones followed after him, her overcoat flapping around her ankles. "We have a few witnesses seeing her coming into the building, around eleven pm, and none coming out. House party across the way, apparently, from nine onwards. She was the cleaner, doing the night shift,"

"At eleven o'clock?"

"Allegedly, she left her phone in the cupboard when she packed the stuff away, and came back to fetch it. Anyway, the owners opened up shop last night, and found her here,"

"Cause of death?"

"Beaten to death. More broken bones than a T-Rex that's had a butcher's dog set on it,"

"Right," Olivia decided, looking around the room. "And presumably, the door was locked from the inside?"

"No. They use an electronic lock system on all of the doors around here – none of them were opened all night,"

"Okay…" murmured Olivia, as she stared upwards, fixated on the roof.

"Found something?"

"Just a thought…" Olivia replied, walking over to the body, still looking above. Following her gaze, Collins looked up, to see a metal grille in the ceiling – the cover for the airvent. "If you were to detach that, you could drop something through it,"

"Yeah, you could…" Collins replied, grabbing on to her train of thought. "How would you attach it again, though?"

"Well," Olivia started "It'd be easy really; you could hook something in between the bars, lower the grille, drop the body and pull the cable taut again,"

Collins peered at the corner nearest to him of the grille – a small metal hook could just about be seen, clutching onto the bars. The plastic cover was mostly concealing it, but a mere inch was still visible.

"You're right!" Collins exclaimed, instinctively pulling his walkie-talkie out of his pocket and raising it to his mouth. "Hoskins, get a stepladder from the cleaner's cupboard, meet us in the dance hall. On the double,"

"Yes, sir," Hoskins replied, his voice fractured over the radio.

"Actually, there must be a room upstairs, somewhere, where the killer dropped her into the ducts. They probably left the screws on the vent loose…at the very least, the dust line will have been broken. Worth a look up there first," Olivia said, turning to face Collins. "I'll go have a reccie, see if I can't find anything. You get your boys up the duct, follow the cable. Got it?"

"Yeah…" Collins answered absent-mindedly. "All makes sense, really, when you think about it – it's the only way in and off here that isn't locked tight. And who would notice a few more broken bones or bruises after being beaten to death?"

"Mind you," Olivia added "We now have the how, on top of the where, what and when. Now all we need is the who and why,"

"Leave it to me…" Collins said. "I mean, you know all the tricks and smoke and mirrors, and I know the people. Give me a filing cabinet over a vanishing cabinet any day,"

"Yeah, well, you can wade through paperwork, I'll work over the puzzles. Fair trade, I suppose," Olivia finished, walking out of the dance hall, letting the doors swing shut behind her.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Figure in the Room

The black cab ground to a halt outside the hotel, the rain pelting off the roof like bullets in a firefight.

"Six fifty, love," the cabbie wheezed, the tobacco stench on his breath wafting into Paula's face. She huffed as she dug the change out of her pocket – five pound coins, a twenty and three tens.

"Keep the change," she muttered, as she grabbed her handbag and exited the cab, preparing to face the typhoon outside.

She slammed the door to her hotel room shut, flicking the lock shut the moment she was in. The last five minutes had been one long blur of wetness, hurrying down corridors and shivering from the cold. Now she had found her sanctuary, she peeled off the sodden overcoat, and draped it over the chair next to her, before wiping away the plastered hair from her face and flicking the light switch on.

A quiet hum filled the room for a brief second as she turned on the laptop, a towel around her hair. Without a second thought, she opened her emails, scanning past the spam messages.

ALAN SMITHEE:

AC clear

Paula frowned as she read this email; Alan wasn't to contact her after they'd made the deal. Clearing her head of the thoughts, she clicked the 'delete' button, sending the text into oblivion.

As she continued with her work, the bathroom door opened silently, only leaving the space of a few gaps. Slowly, a figure crept out, their black apparel blending into the darkness of the bathroom, concealing their appearance.

Paula picked up the phone on her desk, still fixated on the computer screen.

"Hello, room service? Could you send me an extra pillow, please? Thank you," she asked within a single breath, before slamming the phone back on the receiver. Seizing their opportunity, the figure lunged forward, grabbing Paula by the throat and pulling her backwards, sending the chair flying away and Paula crashing onto the floor, with an almighty thud.

There was a knock at the door.

"Miss Manister? Room service!" rang the voice from outside. "Can I come in?". Before Paula could answer, the figure tightened it's grip, cutting off the air completely – rather than a frenzied cry for help, a mere choked groan came out.

However, this was enough for the maid. She swiped her key card through the lock and swung the door open, just in time to see the figure produce a short, ugly blade, and plunge it into Paula's chest, causing a spurt of blood to come flying out, running down her blouse, onto the floor, across the walls – even a few drops reached the roof.

The maid let out a worried gasp of air, silenced by her hand covering her mouth. The figure grabbed the knife and replaced in their pocket, before charging at the maid. She could see everything now – the black mask covering their face, the jumpsuit clinging to their body, the piercing eyes gazing into her soul. It stormed past her, taking off down the corridor.

A few seconds past; what should she do? Finally, after what seemed like years of hesitation, the maid grabbed the door handle and pulled the door shut, not taking her eyes off of the bloody corpse for a millisecond. The lock clicked shut, sealing the room tight.

Two minutes later, DI Olivia Jones was marching down the corridor, followed by the maid and the hotel manager.

"It was just down here…" the maid stammered "I was dropping off her spare pillows, and I saw it! The corpse, the killer, the dagger, everything!"

"Yes, alright, calm down," the manager chided, producing the door key from his pocket. "I'm everything will be sorted out,"

"Is this it?" Olivia asked, stopping outside room 237.

"Yes. Mr Manister's room. 237," the maid replied, putting the key card into the slot.

"Okay, then. Go on, open her up," Olivia said, snapping on the white lab gloves. The lock beeped, the green light shined and the door lock was released.

Olivia at that moment saw everything – the blood patch, drying up slightly on the cream carpet; the musty smell hanging in the room; the chair still toppled over, laying ajar on the floor next to the desk..


	4. Chapter 4 - Jonathan on the Case

"Where the hell is she?!" asked Jonathan, getting more annoyed by the second. It was now 10:31 – over an hour after Paula was supposed to arrive. Adam was in his dressing room, going over the new act again – the _Lonely Hearts_, in which Paula, and three of her closest friends, switch places in different boxes, whilst Adam portrays a lonely suitor. It was a simple enough trick – whilst Adam looks for Paula in each of the boxes, the three women keep swapping places, via a hidden passage behind each of the boxes. However, if she didn't show, they had just under eight hours to find a new showgirl for the trick, and all of Paula's others.

"I've phoned her a few times, but she hasn't answered," one of the stagehands offered up as he passed. Jonathan let out a weary sigh.

"Right, okay, I'll go get her," he moaned, pulling on his duffle coat. "The hotel's not too far away, is it?"

Twenty minutes later, Jonathan stepped out of the taxi, dropping the money into the cabbie's extended palm. The street was still a little damp, recovering from the torrential downpour last night and the sub-zero London air. He tucked his hands into his pockets and shivered a little, before venturing into the hotel.

He was instantly met with a swarm of people – police officers, hotel workers, reporters, the lot.

"Can I help you?" came one voice, as a police officer approached him.

"I'm Jonathan Creek, there's a guest here, Paula Manister? She's late for the show, I've come to pick her up,"

"You'll be a while, son," replied the officer, a coy smile growing on his face.

"Why, is she busy?"

"No, she's dead,"

"What? What the hell happened?"

"I'm afraid I can't say anything more," the police officer finished. "I'm sure you'll read all about in tomorrow's papers,"

"Hold on, Hoskins," came a voice, as Collins fought his way through the crowd. "What did he say his name was?"

"Jonathan…Creek, was it?"

"Jonathan…Jonathan bloody Creek! Oh, he's just what we need, Hoskins!"

"Sir?"

"Oh, come now, Hoskins, don't tell me you can't remember – he was the one with the Jack Holliday business, the nuclear bunker? Dr Strange?"

"The monkey man from a few years back?"

"That's the one! This is the very man we need for this case," Collins decided, grabbing Jonathan by the hand. "Come on, Mr Creek, I'll tell you what happened on the way…"

"So the body vanished, from a room with one door that was locked. It was locked when the maid left it, it was locked when they got back. The maid saw Paula get stabbed, watched the body until the door was locked, and it wasn't there when the manager got back. That right?"

"Exactly, Mr Creek. You're as good as they say,"

"So who came back to the room?"

"The maid, the manager, and DI Jones. You'll like Jones, she'll a bit like you. Good with lateral thinking, all that stuff,"

"Well, we'll see…" muttered Jonathan, examining the door to the room.

Aside from the POLICE: DO NOT PASS signs, the door was identical to all the other doors – thick, light brown wood, with a small glass orb embedded most of the way up in the dead centre. The number 237 was emblazoned on a plastic oblong next to the door. So the various hordes of police officers passing through could do it with ease, the door had been left unlocked and ajar.

"Just in there, Mr Creek," Collins pointed, pointing open the doors. "We've had CIDs sweep over the area for prints, so you're in the clear,"

"Alright. I'll shout if I need anything," Jonathan replied, entering the hotel room.


	5. Chapter 5 - Partners in Crime

Olivia was crouched next to the dried blood, facing the wooden door. So far, it had been like a bad episode of Columbo – it was simple, yet impossible. Nobody could have entered the room without the key, of which there were two copies – the maid had one on her at all times, and the other was inside the room, next to the laptop on the desk. Furthermore, why move the body? It would just risk someone getting caught, and waste time for the killer to get away. That is, of course, presuming that the killer was the person who moved the body.

Either way, it was stretching her imagination somewhat – it meant that it was must have been someone who happened to stumble into a locked room, find a dead body and then move it away at record speed, without someone twigging, or it was the killer, who after making their escape, decided that they really wanted to hide the body, and so broke into the room, nabbed the corpse, and then made away with it, again without leaving a trace. It was impossible.

"You must be DI Jones…" Jonathan said, as he leaned against the doorframe. Olivia leaped up, standing erect and at her full height.

"What gives you that idea?" she shot at him, staring intently to filter out the nerves.

"Who else would be crouched over a blood stain in a crime scene?"

"I mean, what makes you think that I am Jones?"

"Lucky guess," Jonathan finished, with a wry smile.

"Find anything interesting?" he asked, walking over to the blood stain.

"Not yet. Security cameras were down that night, because of the st- hey, why am I telling you this?!" Olivia asked indignantly, balking back slightly.

"This is Jonathan Creek," Collins called, poking his head through the door. "He's good with things like this – I thought he could be a hand to us. Offer insights, things like that. Don't worry, I've heard only good things from other constables over the years,"

"Sorry, we're letting a civilian onto our crime scene?"

"Olivia, he is to work with you on this case, okay? I want this killer caught, and ASAP, okay?"

A few seconds passed as Olivia considered her answer.

"Alright. But I want him to be as quiet as possible, and to interfere with the crime scenes as little as possible. Okay?"

"Deal," Jonathan replied, stepping into the conversation.

"Right then. I'll leave you to it," Collins said, as he left the room.

"So," Jonathan started "Find anything?"

"To be honest," Olivia replied "Not a thing. The window only opens an inch, the walls are three inches thick and the door couldn't be opened,"

"Well," Jonathan replied "It's a stumper. Well, keep me posted," he said, heading for the door.

"Hey!" Olivia shouted, following him. "Where the hell are you going?!"

"The theatre. I've got a job to do!"

"Sorry, I must be hearing things, because twenty seconds ago, Collins just told me that you were supposed to be working this case with me!"

"You might not have noticed, but I didn't exactly get a say in it, did I?"

"That doesn't matter, you made a deal, and you're delivering on it!"

Jonathan scowled for a few seconds; the show was tonight. However, there was nothing he could with there without someone to fill Paula's part.

"Alright," he decided. "Give me five minutes to call my boss and explain, then we'll go over the road to the café, get some breakfast and talk everything over. Okay?"

"Fine. Four minutes," Olivia replied, picking up the last of her things and following Jonathan out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6 - Pontiff's

Pontiff's Café was over the road from the hotel, and couldn't have been more different – whilst the hotel was well-kept, modern and full of life, Pontiff's was grotty, contained more plastic than a Barbie factory and had as much life as a closed cemetery. Jonathan and Olivia were sat in one of the booths, both with a small, cracked mug of coffee and incinerated bacon and egg in front of them. Whilst Olivia disdainfully prodded at her food, Jonathan eagerly swallowed it down, keen to fill the gap left by the busy morning.

"How can you eat this stuff?" Olivia asked, venturing to sip the thick coffee.

"It's not too bad," Jonathan replied "I've had worse,"

"Right…any insight, helpful tips, advice for us?"

Jonathan paused for a second, gathering his thoughts.

"Well, let's focus on the killer first. We saw Paula get stabbed in her room, and the knife was taken by the figure, right?"

"Yeah, so?"

"But, the figure was wearing gloves. So there wouldn't be any prints left on the blade. Which begs the question, why not drop the knife?"

"Maybe there was something else on the knife we could identify them from?"

"Maybe. There's something else, about the killer – where did they go? Nobody saw a masked vigilante running around the hotel, so he can presume-"

"That the killer dumped the gear and went on their way?"

"Exactly. But the police haven't noticed a ski mask, jumpsuit and gloves around the hotel, which implies that-"

"The killer took them out with them?"

"Makes sense; find a lone suitcase or rucksack, stuff the gear in there and head for the hills – who'd think to search the suitcase before he left the hotel?" Jonathan said, as he finished the last of his coffee.

"Mask, jumpsuit, gloves?" said the waiter, as he came over to the table, putting the empty mugs on a tray.

"Sorry?" replied Olivia, turning to look at him.

"Did you just mask, jumpsuit, gloves?"

"Yeah, why?" asked Jonathan, placing his cutlery on his plate and handing it to the waiter.

"It's just, that…we found them in here last night, just by the window. I was the only one in here, working the graveyard shift. No customers as per the norm. I went into the back to answer the phone, and when I came back, someone had come in, dumped the things, and scarpered again,"

"Have you still got them?"

"Yeah, I put them straight in the lost and found,"

The waiter went off behind the counter, leaving Jonathan and Olivia alone.

"That's another piece of the puzzle filled in," Olivia offered up.

"Hmm…" mused Jonathan, fixated intently on the wall.

"What?"

"Well, if you did stow the gear away, why take it out again and dump them in a café?"

"Maybe the killer didn't get a chance to take it off inside the hotel, so they ran off in it, and this was the first place to get changed in?"

"In which case, why put it in the lost and found?"

"Sorry?"

"Well, it was a downpour last night, wasn't it? From eight til late. So the gear should have been sodden by the time they made it across the street – damp, at the very least. You'd have stuck it on the radiator first, before putting it with the other things,"

"So you think this is fake?" Olivia asked incredulously.

"Well, it's probably a real mask, jumpsuit and gloves, just not the ones we're looking for. That downpour was a sudden thing – it was supposed to be day after tomorrow, according to the weather people. This was probably planned ahead of time by the killer, to throw us off,"

"Makes sense. So the killer was still in the hotel?"

"It's a big hotel, it would be more than possible for them to find an empty room and hide out for a few hours,"

"By this time, we've got no chance of finding them, then?"

"Not now, we've not,"

"But if they were to find an empty room, they'd have to work at the hotel, wouldn't they? Every room would be locked exactly the same,"

"Yeah, they would,"

"Well, we have a lead," Olivia finished, as her phone chimed in her pocket. "Hold on, the superiors beckon…" she muttered, producing it. The moment her eyes read the text, they filled wide with surprise. "Come on, we're leaving. Someone sent an email,"

"To the police?"

"No, to Paula. We're wanted…now," she finished, getting up from her seat and exiting the café. Jonathan followed in her steed, leaving the waiter alone, his arms full with the gear.


	7. Chapter 7 - Alan Smithee

The police had checked her emails again and again; they were almost completely empty. A few business notifications, calls and memos, one or two social messages, but apart from that, nothing. Collins had got the technicians to check it over, and they were still in the process of doing so.

"What is it?" Olivia asked as she and Jonathan walked into the room. Collins was stood over the technician as they worked furiously at the computer.

"Well, she's cleared most of the messages, but we should be able to restore them. Won't take too long…" the technician muttered, entranced in his work.

"What about the email?" Jonathan asked exasperatedly.

Collins passed over a small slip of paper, upon which he had written:

ALAN SMITHEE:

NW1 5LA

"That's the email she just got," he said, checking the paper. "We wrote it down before War Games here got to work,"

"NW1 5LA?" read out Olivia curiously.

"That's Baker Street tube station," Jonathan replied. "Alan Smithee…I know that name,"

"So Paula got a message giving her the postcode for Baker Street? Why not just say Baker Street?" Olivia asked.

"We don't know it's the postcode…" Jonathan said, turning to face her.

"Still, better safe than sorry," Collins said. "Hoskins, who's in Baker Street at the moment? Lloyd and George? Tell them to keep an eye out for anything odd…yes, I get that's what they're doing now, but…oh, you know what I mean!"

"Maybe it's a code?" Olivia offered up, prompting Jonathan.

"Seems a bit random for a code," Jonathan answered. "Maybe a password? But, that's too…nebulous, right?"

"I suppose. Any ideas?"

"No, sorry,"

"She encrypted the files, I can't get them," the technician groaned, pushing the laptop away from him in frustration.

"Oh, come on, there's got to be something!" Collins begged.

"Well, this Alan Smithee bloke was a contact she'd made, so she's gotten emails off of him before. Apart from that, nothing,"

"It's a start," Olivia sighed "Come on, Jonathan, we'll go back to Pontiff's, see if there's anything on the gear he found.

"All right," he replied, before checking his watch. "I've got to call the theatre back, see if they've made any progress,"

Five minutes later, Olivia and Jonathan were outside, crossing the busy street, the latter angrily replacing a phone into his pocket.

"Well, that's it, isn't it? Our lead girl's dead, our star is hungover, and now the director's packing it in as well!"

"Wait, she was in the magic show?"

"Yeah, she was one of the assistants,"

"Makes more sense now – a magician's assistant doing a vanishing act,"

"Yeah, I suppose – wait, what did you just say?"

"What?"

"Just then, what did you say?"

"Makes more sense, magician's assistant, vanishing act?"

"Yes…it's all coming together now! Come on, back to the room, now!"

"What is it?"

"I think I've just worked out this whole thing…come on!"

Olivia followed after Jonathan desperately, as he stormed away with all the energy of an adrenaline-fueled moth.


	8. Chapter 8 - Denouement

"You see," Jonathan started "Once you get a change in perspective, this entire ordeal looks a lot simpler than it did before,".

He was surrounded by Olivia, Collins, the maid, the manager and Hoskins, with other police officers crowded outside the room.

"You see, it was something Olivia said that triggered it; she was a magician's assistant. She was used to magic, and tricks, and all other sorts of sorcery. There's one thing about magic, and it's more important or vital to a good trick than anything else. Misdirection. That's what this whole trick was about – pure, and simply misdirection. Whilst the killer ran off, the one place no-one was looking…was Room 237,"

"Just as misdirection is important to magic, motive is important to crime. That's probably the one thing we'll never know,"

"What, why Paula was murdered?"

"No. Why she faked her death,"

A stunned quiet filled the room.

"All day, we've been stumped – not just how, but why. Why bother to take the knife with you, when you're wearing gloves? Why dump the clothes in a café when you've just smuggled them out of the hotel easily? And, mostly important, why bother to come back and move the body? We were all clueless, but, and I'm sorry to say, but the answer has been in my face the whole time. The magic trick she was performing, the _Bloody Mary_. The key to it, is the fake blood on the last knife, to make it look realistic. And that's exactly what happened here – a sachet of fake blood under her shirt, a fake knife that pulls in the blade when you stab with it, it'd look absolutely genuine to anyone. Of course, she needed a witness to prove it – she ordered room service just before. A pillow; something quick, because it didn't need to be prepared. And especially because the trolley was currently on her floor. That caught me as a bit odd; why order the extra pillow then? Why not afterwards, when she was going to bed, or the moment she got in?"

"So, the killer is seen by the maid, drawing all attention away from the body, leaving the very much alive Paula to put on her coat, cover up the blood and exit, locking herself out of the room. I mean, how many times have any of us done that? Now, the maid, the manager and Olivia run back, to find the room empty. So, the 'killer', must have been someone who works in the hotel, to know which room would be empty, and that the maid's trolley would have been on this floor at this exact moment. Only question is who?"

"The manager," said Olivia, turning to face him. "Because, when he inspected the room with us, he threw us off the scent of the killer being him,"

"And he planted the fake gear next door early yesterday, betting on the waiter being none-too-observant. The one thing he couldn't have controlled, is the rain. Hence why the stuff we found couldn't have been real,"

"I don't know why Paula wanted to fake her death, and we probably never will – I expect she's somewhere quiet now," Jonathan continued "But that's not important. Suddenly, out there in the street, I remembered who Alan Smithee is; he's a pseudonym,"

"Isn't that a face cream?"

"No, a pseudonym – a false name. It's used primarily by directors who disown a project when it gets too bad, so no-one knows they had a part in it. It was her accomplice, her confidante…and we'll never know who,"

"So she isn't really dead?"

"No. Knowing her, she'll outlive all of us,"


	9. Chapter 9 - Epilogue

"So," Olivia offered up "Now what?"

The duo were sat in the back of a black cab, heading into the centre of London at 60 miles per hour.

"Well, we still need someone to fill Paula's boots – I've given Adam an aspirin and the director's agreed to stay on for a few nights, but that's all,"

"Can't you just find someone?"

"It's not that easy…they'd have to be willing to do it for free, because we don't have a budget left. I mean, we could rearrange the performances, make them as simple as possible, but it won't get us there,"

"Yeah," Olivia replied "It's a shame,"

A few seconds passed between the two as an idea flickered into Jonathan's head.

"Hang on…" he said, turning to face Olivia, with a devilishly gleam in his eye.

"No, no, don't even think about…!" she said, tucking herself away in the corner of the cab.

An hour later, Jonathan was stood at the back of the theatre, watching the performance keenly for any flaws or imperfections – so far, it had all gone off perfectly. The _Jack in the Box_, the _Wrestler's Tomb_, all the tricks had been pulled off with the utmost quality. The _Lonely Hearts_ was currently in progress, and as Adam slalomed amongst the boxes, just in front of the false wall and leaping over the hatches, Jonathan could see Olivia's face peering out from behind one of the boxes.


End file.
